For the Sake of a Tudor
by randomlvr1
Summary: The Tudor House - the craziest family of lunatics to ever take the throne of England. It lasted only three generations, and good riddance. Current Crazy - The Aftermath of England
1. The Beginning of a Dynasty

_Title: _For the Sake of a Tudor  
_Summary: The Tudor House - the craziest family of lunatics to ever take the throne of England. It lasted only three generations, and good riddance.  
Characters/Pairings: England, and his 16th century bosses, and a bit of France and Spain to spice it up~!  
Rating/Warnings: T+, for things that _will_ happen *hint, hint! wink, wink!*  
Genre: General/Introspective - God, why can't they have any good genres?! D8  
Word Count: 597 w/o the toppings  
Projected Number of Chapters: 7  
Notes:__Oh, my first multichaptered fiction THAT I WILL ACUTALLY FINISH! HELLS TO THE YE-AH! 8D _

_*sniffle* I'm going to dedicate this monumental feat to my first beta, and bestie-estie-_bella_, **darandomninja**. And I'll also dedicate this to **hannaadi88**, who unintentionally placed the idea of reading a book by Philipa Gregory into my head, and starting me on my obsession of Tudor Dynasty England. ;A; I love you guys!_

_Aaaand . . . just a little something 'bout this chapter, then I'll go away. =3= So, Iggy's in the bad-ol' Tower of London (*snicker, snicker*) because, well, the previous dynasty just ended and there's a bit of confusion, right? Well, in this confusion, it just so happens that they mistake the amazing Iggy as a regular courtier, and throw him into the Tower as a threat to the safety of the new king (King Henry VII). Obviously, it takes place right after the War of the Roses, as King Henry ascends to the throne. And this is where our story begins . . ._

**_And go vote on my poll? Please? '8D_**

* * *

The Tower of London was a place for criminals, plotters, and anyone else that disrupted the delicate flow of power in the English court. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was not a place reserved for just any prisoner - they had to be well known, and under the scrutiny of the public eye. Or at least the gossiping milkmaid's tongue.

But Arthur Kirkland met neither requirement. Yet, here he found himself, his spirit rotting away in the musty and demoralizing cell of the Tower. Without a window, he was unable to estimate the amount of time he'd been shut into isolation, but he liked to say that it was only his boredom that made time stretch on. He'd like that, but he'd also like to be out of this prison and be treated with the respect he deserved as a proud nation.

Neither seemed likely.

And this is what time and tedium had reduced him to - a blabbering nation that took enjoyment from telling himself bad puns. What had his world come to?

A light and unmistakable knock on his cell door, a creak of un-oiled hinges, and a perverse smirk later, he knew exactly how far the world had degraded. And from his judgment of the hopeless situation, he earnestly liked to have been struck dead on the spot by a stray lightning bolt.

"_France,_" hissed England, the hackles on his neck bristling at his rage. "What are you doing here, you frog?"

His eastern neighbor sauntered into the room luxuriously, clicking his tongue in disappointment. He made sure to twirl the ring of keys on his forefinger in obvious sight. "Is that anyway to talk to your liberator, _mon cher?_ Really, if I had the choice, I'd lock you in here forever and throw the keys to Russia."

A shiver of delight crawled down his spine - he was to be freed, and none of France's threats could be taken seriously. Actually, nothing that came out of that wino-bastard's mouth could be taken seriously. Unless it was a sexual proposition, in which case one should pay heed and be wary of the eventual attack the hormonal Frenchman would spring.

"If you are here to undo this mistake, I do insist that you do so smartly - I cannot keep the King and his court waiting," England demanded confidently, his eyes dancing with wild excitement. There was nothing in his perfect posture or carefully controlled features that betrayed the long days of anxiousness and terror he'd been subjected to while in his prison.

Somehow, France could read his life-long rival like a book. His eyes softened to something akin to empathy as he answered. "I've explained the situation to King Edward - who seems to have taken a special liking to my men - and he is awaiting you to join him in his court with full title and decoration."

"I should think so," England answered shortly. He crossed his arms defensively and pierced his rival with an intense pair of green orbs peeking out from under heinously thick brows.

Seeing his compassion gone in vain, France dropped his hints of pity and produced a red rose seemingly out of thin air. He felt the wry and taunting smirk on his lips as he observed the rise of one bushy brow questioningly. France had a simple answer.

"Welcome to the Tudor Dynasty, _mon ami_."


	2. Bluff Harry

_ . x X Bluff Harry X x . _

~X~

It was Christmas feast, but England was anything but jolly.

In fact, if anyone in this lame court were to be described as jolly, it would have to be that greedy glutton on the throne, King Henry VIII. But try as he might to pointedly ignore the heart and center of the otherwise dreary court, England found it very much impossible to block out his king's dreadfully vivacious laughter.

The best gift this man could give to him and his people, England thought scornfully, would be to die this very evening.

A stolen side-glance at the crowned man only brought forth another surge of hatred, and England had to look away before red clouded his vision. He felt the hate and disgust of this king fill the caverns of his heart, the heart which belonged to his people. This king, who could only turn a deaf ear towards those living in winter's famine, and then robbed them of their only salvation.

But for a fleeting moment, England pitied this king.

He would forever be remembered as the man that sent his country into turmoil, the king with six - as of late - wives, two of which were executed, and the glutton who feasted as his people starved. No one would remember the early, peaceful days of his reign, when the people embraced him as their young king.

The moment passed, and England was left to gag on any remaining pity for King Henry. Unable to compose himself fully, he stood from his seat and bowed minimally to the head of the table. It fell silent as England excused himself from dinner.

"Please excuse me Your Majesty, I'm not feeling too well," England said, tight-lipped. "I think I'll retire for the night."

The room tensed, waiting for the outburst they were sure to follow in the recent days of the king's heightened temperament. England smirked inwardly, knowing none would come. He was untouchable in his position as nation, unless this foolish king wanted to wage war on the heart of the nation.

"Of course." There was a collective gasp as the king gave England a greasy smile, much unlike the thunderstorm they were expecting. "We must have you well-rested for the hunt tomorrow, am I correct Lord Kirkland?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

With that, England swept out of the banquet hall.

* * *

___Word Count: Instantaneous - 417; Total - 1,014  
Current Characters: England, King Henry VIII_

_A/N: So much to say about His Majesty, so little space. *sarcasm* ____

_You must have heard of King Henry VIII sometime in your life, even if you can't link the guy to the name. Just as a refresher, he was the fat man-whore. (No, I don't hate the guy, just kind of displeased with some of his actions. Don't burn me with your flames! ;A;)_

_Yeah, _that_ one._

_Anyway . . . He was great in the beginning of he rule, promoting the arts and boasting brilliant scholars, but he grew, let's say, a bit moody. He wanted a prince as heir, and he wasn't getting one. You could say he threw tantrum (ex: separating from the Roman Catholic church) after tantrum (ex: burned the 'heretical' William Tyndale at the stake) for the rest of his life. *shrug* I could be wrong - I'm getting this all off wikipedia and my fallible memory. Go look up stuff for yourself if you're still curious (and desperate for more reliable answers '8D)._

_That's it . . . _


	3. Young Edward

_ . x X Young Edward X x . _

~X~

Edward had never been strong as a lad, but it still caught England off-guard to find the boy-king on his deathbed barely six years into his reign.

"Tell me of King Arthur again, Lord Kirkland."

From the door, Lord Protector Dudley gave a slow nod of confirmation. Gritting his teeth, England willed the pleasant smile to remain on his face as he turned back to his dying king.

"Of course, Edward."

As England easily rewove the tale of the legendary king he had known personally, he observed Edward's face fall into deep peace. Every now and again, he had to pause to allow the boy to release chest-wracking coughs that did not sound healthy at all. England's heart, the same heart that belonged to his people, tore at the sight of this suffering king and, at the same time, burned in hatred for whatever man brought this upon the boy.

That very man was standing at the door, watching their private exchange with a highly critical eye, masked by staged concern.

"Will Jane, Elizabeth, or Mary be visiting soon? I'd dearly love to see them," Edward suddenly asked, weak features suddenly hopeful at the thought of his only family.

"They're right on their way, but they have to stop frequently and powder their noses like women always do," England lied. To the boy's crestfallen expression, he quickly corrected his words. "But I'll send a message to them right away to put away their makeup and hurry over. Don't you fret, Edward."

England hated lying to the boy. He hated Dudley even more for forcing him to lie.

Jane was, in fact, waiting downstairs, pleading to visit her sick cousin while her new husband - coincidentally enough, one of Dudley's own, pompous children - tried in vain to silence her. Elizabeth and Mary, in a much more dire situation, were running from Dudley's men and their warrants for treason. It all came back to Dudley, who had been slowly poisoning the boy with his bad influence beginning the day he had stepped up beside the impressionistic king.

"Am I going to die, Arthur?"

England didn't need to look up to see Dudley's firm shake of the head to know to lie, again.

"Of course not, lad," England assured gently. As he placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, he wished he could have believed his own words. "Why would you ever think that? You'll be up and wooing women in no time, wait and see."

Edward looked up at him with hollow, unconvinced eyes, as if imploring him to tell the truth. England opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, finding there was nothing to say, before Edward closed his eyes again. There was a long pause of silence before he spoke again, weaker than before.

"Do the people love me? Does England love me? Will they miss me when I am gone?" He turned back with shining eyes. "You're the only I can trust to tell me the truth about this. You are the heart of my people - was I a just ruler?"

This time, Dudley made no silent commentary. He became attentive, as if he wanted to hear the answer too.

England breathed deeply, choosing his words carefully. "My people - _your_ people - do love you, dearly. _You_ tried to rule fairly, and _you_ have never given the people pain. Which is why you can give no thought to death - we still need you, King Edward."

Edward nodded gravely and closed his eyes. Something in the way he had looked at England, with such sudden and strong conviction, told him that the boy had understood the double meaning in his words. While Edward had been a benevolent and kind ruler, the pain his people were feeling all rested up on _his_ reign, _his_ Lord Protector.

Dudley leaned back and coughed subtly - it was time for England to shut up and leave the dying boy.

"Make sure to send that message to my siblings and Lady Jane, Arthur," Edward reminded as his country stood up slowly. "I need to see them before I die, just once more."

"Didn't I tell you to stop talking of that nonsense?" England cleared his throat, hoping to banish the cracking tenor to it. "Now you rest and regain your strength, and I'll take care of those silly girls."

"Good-bye, Arthur."

"Farewell, Edward."

As Dudley and Arthur exited the room, leaving Edward under the onslaught of doctors that had been anticipating this moment to pour into the king's privy chambers, Dudley hummed in satisfaction. "I think His Majesty is getting much stronger. Don't you think so, Lord Kirkland?"

England gave a curt jerk of the head. "I suppose so."

A week later, King Edward was no more.

* * *

___Word Count: Instantaneous - 882; Total - 1,896  
____Current Characters: England, King Edward VII, Lord Protector Dudley_

_A/N__: Oh, poor Edward. ;A; The boy was probably the least corrupted, and most sane of his entire family._

_King Edward VII took the throne at the age of nine, with his uncle, Thomas Seymour, as his Lord Protector (which is a person chosen to head the government when in case the current king is too young or unfit to rule). But there was a scandal with Thomas Seymour, and Lord Protector John Dudley took his place. Dudley was a very ambitious man, and having such an ambitious man so close to the throne is never very wise. Some accuse him of poisoning the young king, but evidence has proved that King Edward most likely died of tuberculosis._

_I can't really call Edward a very capable king, but my heart goes out for the boy that never lived to see manhood. _

_So, I'll stop here before I give some long, drawn-out rant about my mushy sentiments for Edward. ':D_


	4. Nine Days' Queen

_ . x X Nine Day's Queen X x . _

~X~

"Your Grace, I'd like to introduce you to a special man on your court, Lord Arthur Kirkland."

The newly crowned queen eyes flitted nervously between Lord Protector Dudley and England as Dudley smiled slyly. England kneeled before the queen, taking the white and shaking hand she offered timidly to him and kissing it. He rose to his feet, startled to find that he looked down upon her delicate, sixteen-year-old frame.

"Lord Kirkland." She nodded to him slightly, her head strangely absent of the crown she had refused to wear.

England nodded back, still not confident enough to trust his voice. He was shocked, to say the least, to meet the first and only heir that did not want to accept the throne. And a woman at that! But, here she was, two days into her reign and standing with a strength she could barely conjure. Though, she did not seem happy at all.

In fact, England had yet to see Jane, as queen or lady, happy. She wasn't happy visiting the palace with her parents years ago, she wasn't happy with a husband at her side months ago, and she most certainly was not happy with a crown on her head. He had heard rumors that she was the scholarly type, only satisfied when she was within the sanctity of her library. He hadn't believed it when he heard it, but seeing the young woman's quiet and humble features, England could picture her smiling as she read alone by the candlelight.

But educated women never fared well in this world. Queen Jane knew _too_ much, which led England to believe she was right and sane to deny the crown, not that she really had a choice in the matter.

Jane must have known that she was not the one to inherit the crown, even if Dudley insisted and brandished the decree written by her dead cousin two days before his death. She must had known that Mary raged when she heard her cousin had taken the throne, preceding her own rightful claim to the throne by her father's wish. And she must have known that her reign, and possibly her life, could not last very long.

Because, only an informed queen could look so bleak with the kingdom in her palm, the crown on her head, and a ring on her finger.

And England was about to further extend her misery by giving her the shock of her life - that countries were represented by people just like him. He observed the way she tried to hold her head up high, how she tried to display nothing but confidence for her people (who seemed to fall out of favor for her, rallying behind Mary instead), but how she was really a sorely tried child at heart. A child that needed guidance, not more responsibilities.

Could he bare to add to her load?

"Your Grace," he greeted, bowing lowly. "I may be on your court, but I am nothing but a servant to the reigning Queen of England. If there is anything you ever need, please do not hesitate to ask for me."

For the first time, England witnessed Jane's smile reach her eyes, and he admitted she truly did look like an innocent child when she did. From behind her, Dudley gave him a disapproving frown. England returned it with a lethargic gaze.

"I will make sure to do so, Lord Kirkland." Queen Jane nodded in acknowledgement once again, this time with a healthy flush dusting her cheeks, and turned back to the rest of the court.

Giving England once last glare, Dudley followed the new queen. "Your Grace, I'd also like you to meet . . . "

_ . x ~X~ x . _

"Lord Kirkland! Lord Kirkland!"

England looked up from his letter. It was rare to hear anything more than whispers in the palace since Mary had announced her intentions of reclaiming the throne from the illegitimate queen. His stomach plummeted when the suspicions flew about in his mind.

"What news do you bring?" he demanded of the messenger standing at the door of his chambers.

"It's Mary!" The boy's face lit up at the name. "She's come to London with her rebel army, and she's claimed the throne rightfully as hers! Lord Dudley is in custody, and Lady Jane is in the Tower! England is now in proper hands."

England took a glance at his calendar - it was July 19. Jane's reign had lasted only nine days.

"Very well, thank you for telling me," he dismissed.

"Aren't you coming down to join in the celebrations? Today is a truly wonderful day!" The messenger seemed delighted beyond words, and he seemed ready to dance on the spot. Could he really be celebratory when a sixteen-year-old queen had just been placed into the Tower?

"No, I don't think so. You may leave now."

England heard the door slam behind the boy, eager to dance and celebrate the new reign with everyone else. The messenger, along with the rest of his people, had already forgotten the Nine Days' Queen.

* * *

___Word Count: Instantaneous - 915; Total - 2,811  
____Current Characters: England, Queen or, as others insist, Lady Jane Grey, Lord Protector Dudley_

_A/N: Lady Jane is most definitely my favorite Tudor. It's not because of what she's done, but what she hasn't done. (Because, really, she did absolutely _nothing_ during her nine days)_

_As a young girl, she was constantly abused and remained unloved by her parents. She was only truly happy and wanted as a ward under formerly Queen Katherine and Thomas Seymour (who were married after King Henry VIII's death, and 'adopted' Jane along with, then, Princess Elizabeth). But, that happiness also dissolved when Thomas Seymour had an affair with Elizabeth right in front of his wife. Things were tense and chaotic until Katherine's death during childbirth. She was living with her parents again when her cousin, King Edward VI, died of tuberculosis and named, against his father's will, Jane the next in line for the throne. The legitimacy of her reign is still disputed because Edward's decree was never approved by Parliament, but, either way, Jane was declared as queen on July 10, 1553. It was most likely a plot by Dudley to get his son on the throne, having since married one of his sons off to Jane earlier that year. But Jane would not have it - she refused to consummate the marriage, and she refused to name her husband as king, instead giving him the title of Duke of Clarence. Jane was thoroughly obstinate in refusing the crown in the first place, and by July 19, Mary had rallied enough support to take London in her name.  
Jane was executed on February 12, 1554, awaiting a pardon that would never come from her cousin, the newly named Queen Mary._

_A true tragedy, hm? :/_


	5. Bloody Mary

_ . x X Bloody Mary X x . _

~X~

Queen Mary was to marry Philip II of Spain. Subsequently, this would also be the marriage of England to Spain.

Whether his people had affected him, or vice versa, he'll never be quite sure. All he did know that he would not let himself, or his people, be under the rule of a Spanish prince, and neither would he allow himself to be bound to that bastard, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.

"What are you thinking?" England demanded of his ruler, bursting unannounced into Queen Mary's privy chambers.

Unaffected, the Queen looked away from the portrait hanging on her wall - the one of Prince Philip England had insisted defiled the lavishly decorated palace walls - and gave her nation personified a rather impassive look. She paused for a moment, listening to the other's agitated panting, before speaking coolly.

"I thought you, of all people, would understand that I do this for my country. You need a king, and Prince Philip is the perfect suitor - he will not meddle in English affairs, force us to assist his Empire, and will give support to us in our darkest hour." She raised a delicate brow. "Surely, you can live with Lord Antonio happily if you are comforted with the knowledge that this is the best for our country?"

"But this is _not_ in the best interest of my people!" he insisted fervently. "You're no queen if you follow through with this marriage - just another maiden struck by the carnal pleasures of marriage!"

The color rose to Mary's wrinkled face. She faced him fully, her posture maintained perfectly after years of holding her head high through crowds that had tried to downsize her. "I beg your pardon! I am the Queen of England, and you are no adviser! And even if you were, that is no way to speak to me! How _dare_ you speak to me of such things? How _dare_ you try to humiliate me!"

"I am wiser than an adviser - I have lived ten of any one of their lives, and I _am_ the people! They are the ones that hold the power of this country." He stood firmly, undaunted by the Queen's impressive aura. "This marriage will bring nothing for the people, and it will bring nothing to you."

England, after years of submissive etiquette, had finally snapped. Perhaps he was becoming haughty with the idea of being an eternally untouchable courtier, or perhaps it had to be done with this Queen, whose people energetically rejected this joining.

Mary bristled defensively, staring accusingly at the sandy-haired man before turning back to the portrait she had fallen in love with. With a chilling calmness she said, "I would keep that tongue in check, Lord Kirkland. If it means I can placate this country, I won't hesitate to send you to the Tower-" She half-turned back to him with pursed lips and a steely sincerity. "-or to the block altogether. If you think of me foolish or unreasonable, just remember that I do all of this out of the love for my people, not for my love a single _being_. Are we clear?"

England couldn't feel anything but the dread sinking into his stomach. Since his brief encounter with the cells, and his brush of the block (he hadn't known just how close he had been to losing his head until France brought it up one drunken night), he'd been traumatized of anything that related to that sinister place. Some vague instinct told him that it wouldn't be the last terror the Tower would place upon him.

He clasped his shaking hands tightly behind his back, out of the sight of the Queen. "Y-You wouldn't do that to-"

"I would."

The final resolution in her voice convinced England she was saying this with full honesty.

"I do hope you will finally understand that I do this all in best interests," Mary whispered. Her features seemed to soften with something akin to maternal love, but England knew that love had to be an impossible concept to such a monster that would go as far as to threaten their own country with the axe. She turned back to the portrait coldly, seeking solace in the handsome and enchanting features of the Spanish prince. "Guards! Please escort Lord Kirkland to his chambers and assure me that he stays there until he comes to his senses. Good-bye, Lord Kirkland - I do hope next time we meet, you will have seen logic."

Without further explanation, he was prodded out the door by two burly guards, still shaken by the memories of the Tower, and haunted by the future he had been unable to save his people from.

_ . x ~X~ x . _

The wedding was anything but a wedding. Well, at least in England's case - while Mary had a grand ceremony to honor her bondage to Prince Philip, his 'marriage' had been nothing but a signing of treaties in front of the aging and failing sight of Parliament and several Spanish ambassadors.

The only aspect of the entire ritual that linked it to a traditional marriage was the preposterous dress Spain had wriggled himself into. He had come to the meeting room, decked in the latest of Spanish, _female_ apparel and flaunting the wealth of his empire in the pearls and diamonds dotting his form. There were tears of joy in his eyes as he floated towards England - it didn't seem to particularly matter to the Spaniard that he barely knew his fiancé, a wedding was a wedding in his rosy vision.

And if England weren't so dead-set on upholding a reputation, he may have shed a few tears too. Tears of agony, that is to say.

After the treaty was signed (which took much too long, in England's opinion, seeing to the fact that they had to pause the reading frequently to allow Spain to blow noisily into his handkerchief), England promptly fled from the scene, not giving Spain the chance to follow through in any other ridiculous 'wedding' traditions.

Soon after his own nuptials, he was forced to attend the celebratory feasts of his Queen and her new husband. He wasn't quite comfortable being in the same room with Queen Mary anymore, but if it meant escaping his overly-passionate 'husband', he would have braved the moldy cells of the Tower.

That night, he hoped to escape whatever the Spaniard had planned for them (he blanched at the very thought) by taking to his private chamber under the false pretenses of illness, but lying would not be necessary. Leaving the feasting hall, he suddenly felt uncomfortably stuffy and stepped outside for a breath of air. That was where the palace servants found him, unconscious, after slipping into a terrible bout of fever.

He awoke to the sounds of restrained and panicked whispers. He heard the words on the courtiers lips clearly in his half-conscious state.

"Can their beings become sick?"

"What will become of our kingdom if he dies?"

"Have the Spanish brought some kind of devil's plague? Worse yet, did they poison him?"

Over the dull roar, he heard desperate sobbing. And though he had yet to hear Spain's crying, he could immediately identify him from the hysterical pleas he whispered for his 'husband' to wake up. Even in despair, Spain could be irritatingly passionate.

He finally roused fully, a painful groan escaping the back of his throat. He peeked open his eyes, blinking at the dim light, and heard the entire room hush at his stirrings. Before he could so as much as open his eyes completely, Spain pounced onto him and clutched desperately to his limp chest.

_"¡__Gracias a Dios que estás vivo! ¡__Estuve tan preocupado!"_

He moaned weakly, unable to find the strength to pry the blubbering Spaniard off him. Luckily, someone saved him the trouble and removed the bothersome man, replacing Spain's rough actions and frantic cries with a cool rag on his fevered forehead and a soothing hand in his. He was too exhausted to look upon the angel who had saved him.

In the background, Spain continued to sob and sprout rapid-fire phrases in his native tongue. The angel next to him giggled delightfully.

"He's thanking God for saving you, and cursing me for stealing you all at the same time," the familiar voice translated smoothly. "You have quite the colorful spouse on your hands, Lord Kirkland, and you are in quite the situation yourself."

He opened his eyes to bronze hair and olive skin. Mary gave a quiet smile and placed a cool hand on his cheek, caressing it like the mother he never had. He let out a feral snarl and flinched back from her touch with the little strength he could muster. In his weakened state, his emotions were raw and boiled under his skin. He had no patience for etiquette and facades.

"I see that you, nor the people, have forgiven me." Mary's smile faded as she leaned back, giving the sick man the space he demanded. "But are the people so unhappy with my choice that you fall ill in response? Oh, I never wanted _this_ to happen!"

By the time she was reduced to sobs, her shoulders heaving violently, all the courtiers had vacated the premises. Only Mary's most trusted lady-in-waiting stood by the door, having since shooed the other distressed nation and last gossiper far from the door, her eyes burning passionately for her queen. England watched apathetically.

"Was it what I said to you that has made you hate me so?" Mary suggested, tear-glistening eyes pleading undeniably with her nation. "Oh, I know it is. But I had to keep you subdued somehow! I couldn't let your actions go unpunished - surely you understand the rules of this land, however flexible in your case, are still in application?"

His tired eyes softened. He had trusted Mary with his kingdom, and he would trust Mary now, with his life. For what was there between a nation and their sovereign without faith in the other?

Weakly, a pale hand reached out to his queen and stroked the hands covering her face. Brown eyes peeked out from behind the spaces between her fingers, and were revealed to be dancing happily when the hands fell from her wet cheeks, complimenting her feeble smile.

"I will never betray you, England," she whispered fiercely, a cool washcloth swiping over his burning forehead. "I am, and forever more, this country's mother."

Her tender, affectionate smile was the last thing he saw of the conscious realm before slipping into his dreams.

But, in the domain of his sleep, he saw Queen Mary again. This time, deep wrinkles were carved into her once motherly - now ashen - face, and a deep wail sat, soundlessly, in her open mouth. In her arms, she clutched desperately at two dead infants, and she stood upon a mound of scorched, skeletal remains. As plumes of smoke drifted up from the flames licking at the background, she ordered his death with resolute determination, and Spanish guards blindfolded him as they pushed his neck against the cold block.

He awoke, unable to recall any of his dreams but a feeling of terror and dread, as the whistle of axe, coming down on his neck, sounded the air.

* * *

___Word Count: Instantaneous - 2,012; Total - 5,622  
____Current Characters: England, Queen Mary I, Spain, mention of Prince Philip of Spain_

_A/N: She wasn't called 'Bloody Mary' just by a couple of dissatisfied maids. Still with that in mind, I have a soft spot for Mary. I don't think she ever meant to hurt anyone (even if she did ___ big time). And I don't think she meant to hurt Arthur - she only thought she was doing what was best and necessary for him. _

_She was named a bastard by her own father as a child, always left out and forgotten him as she grew up. Life never really got better for her until she had the crown on her head, Prince Philip of Spain by her side, and a child in her womb. It came crashing down on her when her own sister, whom she thought she could trust, began to seduce her husband, and her pregnancy turned out to be nothing but a humiliating phantom pregnancy. Whether it was because she was driven mad because her husband had practically abandoned her, or it was an unconscious way of getting rid of any lingering monuments of her father, _or _whether it was because she truly thought it was the best thing for her country to revert it back to 'the old faith', is kind of up to your interpretation. Either way, she set out to burn heretics to cleanse England of all Protestants. She forced herself into another phantom pregnancy, probably wanting to assure a Papist heir to the throne or to lure her husband back. Right before her death, she named Elizabeth as heir._

_And that's the end of Bloody Mary's story - the woman who wanted a child so badly, wanted to take care of her country so badly, and could do neither. :/_


	6. Virgin Queen

_ . x X Virgin Queen X x . _

~X~

Elizabeth had, most definitely, inherited the 'Tudor charm'.

With a half-lidded glance from under her lashes and a coy smile, she could bring men to their knees. Without even meeting the eyes of the court, she could bring the most righteous man galloping after her blazing red hair and luxuriously swaying hips. She had charmed the entire country with her passionate gaze and graceful eloquence. Which meant that England's heart, belonging to the same people who had fallen for this proud and dazzling woman, was in the palm of the queen's hand.

So how was England, who suddenly found himself half-smitten with the queen and under the onslaught of her gaze, supposed to fare?

Surprisingly well, actually.

"Hullo, Elizabeth," England greeted as the young queen walked away, flushed, from a grinning Robert Dudley. His tone was suggestive and polite.

It earned him a quick side-glance and puckered lips. "Oh, not you too. Hush, will you? I shan't have my own country teasing me."

With a final, low bow, the Dudley and his jostling entourage exited the room in an excited gaggle. The doors clicked behind them loudly, and they were alone. If it had been a male other than England in that room, gossip and rumor would have spread like plague. But it was only him.

"You two seem rather . . . friendly," he alluded vaguely, gesturing with an arm to the closed door.

"If you are implying something other than a warm friendship, I could have you tried for slander against your sovereign," she warned coolly. But the same eyes that had seduced countless princes and noblemen alike danced with bemused mischief. She sighed, "I need to put an end to those terrible rumors. They do nothing for my peace."

"Then stop your open flirtations. Take a step back from him and let the gossip put itself out," he suggested simply. He stepped towards his radiant queen, taking her hand and cradling it tenderly.

She gave no mocking glare - her look was desperate and almost crazed. "I can't," she breathed. "He's one of the few that stayed with me, despite my fluctuation in power. It's like taking the very earth from under me - it's impossible."

He nodded and she hung her head in shame. No matter what he would do, what he had _done_, Dudley would always have that fact and a space in her heart. England swallowed thickly, the bitter tang still on his tongue.

"So you love him?"

In the beginning, he had rejected her very presence. He had called her a conceited whore, born from a slutty witch and red-headed glutton that had not an iota of sanity between them to spare for their daughter. A skank that had survived up to this point on seduction and uncanny luck, and was unfit to be the on the seat of revered Kingdom of England. A bastard child that inherited her mother's wanton nature, and her father's gravitation to power.

Now? Now . . . he'd never been so in love in his life, and it was frightening. Especially given that his first love truly was all these things, and more.

"Not as much as I do another." Her flirtatious glint had returned, but not even her breathtaking smile could distract him from the ambiguity of her statement.

"And who would this man be?" he asked quietly, taking her soft knuckles to his lips and never breaking their impassioned gaze. The strict rules of formality were quickly being forgotten as he reached up and ghosted her rosy cheeks.

Swiftly, she slipped herself out of his reach _(again)_ and strode toward the door. At the doorknob, she gave him a fervent smile that energized the frantic beats of his heart. "Wouldn't you like to know?" With her hand on the door, she winked slyly and glided out the room.

How Elizabeth had always loved the hunt.

_ . x ~X~ x . _

"I've been hearing some rather ridiculous rumors, _mon cher_, and I'd like you to clear them up since they directly involve you."

The Englishman next to him didn't even flinch - he kept his attentive gaze on the accolade, and France almost believed that he hadn't been heard. What France didn't know was that if he had been giving England a closer inspection, all the answers he needed would be self-evident.

"Continue," England encouraged under his breath. His emerald orbs never faltered from the queen's movements, and France didn't catch it.

Pleasantly surprised, England's eastern neighbor and life-long antagonist smirked against his palm, following the other's example and keeping his eyes on the ceremony. He whispered, "Well, everyone was talking about the infamous pirate Sir Francis Drake-" France gave a pointed look at said man himself, being dubbed by the queen as he spoke. "-and how he had a most ferocious first mate by the name of Arthur Kirkland. Now, you must know that my mind immediately jumped to you, _Angleterre-_but you? A pirate! Ha!"

Someone from the back row shushed him violently, but it fell onto deaf (or at least 'selective') ears. France was preoccupied, giving England a sideways glance as he anticipated for some kind of flustering or huffy response that was so expected from him. England did neither.

Instead, he snorted (most '_uncouthly_', as another England would have described it as) and answered languidly, "What a nasty thing to say about a person. I'll have to insist you tell me the name of this horrible gossiper. No one can mistake us for those dirty, lowlife delinquents and get away with it. We are privateers, love, attacking those fat and arrogant Spanish galleons in the name of the queen-" England finally tore his eyes away from the scene, just to catch France's scandalized expression and fuel his confusion with a saucy wink. "-and we're damn proud of it. Savvy?"

It took France several minutes to recover, in which time England turned away as if he had not just defied the laws of the universe and shattered the earth under France's feet. "Well, that fact does make the next rumor a bit more . . . possible," France muttered bemusedly. "But I still doubt that you managed to convince the queen to grant you your own ship to command and-"

"Yes, your sources are correct."

A glint appeared in the oftentimes called 'perverse' country's eyes. "Which makes the last one fact _and_ scandal."

England raised a furry brown, seemingly the only thing that had not undergone dramatic change since becoming a 'privateer' - France observed that even his neighbor's green eyes had gained a wild edge to it. "And what would this factual scandal be?"

"That you are infatuated with Queen Elizabeth." France held his breath as England pondered an answer, eyes still glued on the ceremony.

"I'm going to tell you one thing and nothing more on the matter - I have no desire to hear your boorish comments." France leaned in to catch England's answer as his tone continued to lower. "I can assure you that the Virgin Queen is a virgin no longer."

At that moment, the entire congregation rose to their feet and began clapping - the ceremony was complete and Sir Drake had been knighted. The two nations joined them not a beat too slowly, but France's hearty clapping seemed to be acknowledging another accomplishment.

"Arthur, you _dog!_" France laughed, suddenly realizing that his counterpart's eyes were trained obsessively on the queen's elegant motions. "Seducing your own monarch? Oh, I wish I had that brilliant idea, and a queen as _magnifique _as yours!"

"Oh hush - not in front of the courtiers. You know how they talk," the Englishman discouraged, though the haughty smirk on his face said otherwise.

Soon, they were left alone, the other guests having flocked to the newly knighted man in vain hopes of gaining a share of his favor and power. France wasted no time in turning back to his unaffected comrade. "Why did it take so long?"

"Did I not say I would not answer more questions?"

"And did I not say I had to clear up these _ridiculous_ rumors? You wouldn't want me leaving misinformed, would you, _mon cher?_"

England relented quickly, giving him a simple answer that contradicted his once snarky attitude. "She was, and is, a shameless whore. It used to matter a great deal to me, but I cannot say the same now."

"But did she enter your bed - or perhaps the other way around - a virgin? I have heard slanderous things about your queen - she's charmed her once-guardian, Thomas Seymour, King Philip II of Spain when he was still known as the King of England, and I've heard the flirtations between her and Robert Dudley were a bit more passionate than your average court banter."

He heaved a short sigh, flipping the hair out of his green eyes to give France a bored eye roll. "As I said - she is a shameless whore. But Seymour is dead, she has lost interest and use of King Philip, and that bastard, Dudley, has married another woman and lost the favor of the queen."

"And are you in love with her?"

"Of course not!" England laughed dryly. "Only a fool would fall for a woman as wanton as her. She only courts to further her safety, or the safety of the unsteady crown upon her head. I'm sure she only wants me to earn the support of her people - a crafty slut and a dangerous queen."

France nodded, but remained unconvinced. A man not in love did not follow the subject of their affections with such fierce tenderness. France did not say anything, for to logic any man so sick with the insanity which was love was a waste of breath. The younger nation would have to learn the pain of loving a mortal soon enough, the nation of _l'amour_ was sure of it. He made sure to keep any of his pity off his expression.

"Oh _Angleterre!"_ he sighed breathlessly, a hand to his forehead and mocking a lady's swoon._ "_You are stealing my heart with your new-found personality! I cannot hold myself back - be expecting me in your bedchamber this night."

"And I will be prepared-" France stumbled at the other's words, gawking incredulously at his was graced with a smirk that made the Englishman that much more delectable. "-I'll have my scabbard sharpened, and sheathed under my pillow. I have been itching for a chance to drive it through you, anyway."

France grinned appreciatively. "I see my old England is still kicking around somewhere in there."

The young privateer waved it off and made a move to leave. Mid-step, he paused and gave the other nation a quizzical look over his shoulder. ". . . One last thing - how did you know I was involved with the queen if she granted me a ship?"

The country of love's grin was anything but assuring. "Well, you had to convince her one way, didn't you _Angleterre?_ And I'd say that you did a pretty good job at it."

England nodded in pseudo approval. "Damn right I did."

* * *

_Word Count: Instantaneous - 1,993; Total - 7,615  
Current Characters: England, Queen Elizabeth I, France, cameo of Robert Dudley_

_A/N: Oh, the Virgin Queen! The marvelous Elizabethan Era of England, in which the arts flourished and the dreaded Spanish Armada was finally defeated! All hail Good Queen Bess!_

_-_____-' A whole lot of unnecessary fanfare and _rubbish_, if you asked me. _

_Oh, England did make a lot of progress during that time, but Elizabeth, sadly, had little to do with it. The credit should be due to her people, who finally had a stable and long reign, and her advisors, who pretty much made all the decisions. Elizabeth got the love because she was the only pretty face among them (which she lost eventually due to a bout of smallpox)._

_But, hey, that's my opinion, and I shall respect whatever opinion you have on ol' Bessie. Since, a lot of people do seem to hold her in high respects . . ._

_So, more unnecessary historical notes! BD . . . Yeah, so, in the beginning of her reign, they were dead set on finding her a suitor. She sort of . . . rejected them all. But not bluntly. Oh no, that wouldn't be fun, now would it? It was in a way that left everyone, including said suitor, thinking, "Wait - did she just reject me?" So, she never got married and she was nicknamed as 'the Virgin Queen'. Well, she _did_ have a huge scandal with Robert Dudley (ah yes, the Dudleys, and yet another mad grab for power), but that ended when his wife died under mysterious circumstances and he was found unfit to rule because of the scandal. _

_I got my perception of her and any/all information from a book I read ('The Virgin's Lover', for those curious), and wikipedia - blame them for any inaccuracies. _


	7. The Six Wives of Henry VIII

_ . x X The Six Wives of Henry VIII X x . _

~X~

"_Hijo_, wake up. You're going to be too late if you don't wake up."

England's eyes shut tighter, wishing away the sound. He knew that voice in the twenty-four years he had known her. And he knew the fierce whisper was nothing but a haunting allusion, given that the voice had died off with a broken heart so long ago . . .

"_iHijo, levántate!_"

He gasped, shooting upright in the sheets he'd been trying to disappear in. Unwilling guffaws of laughter erupted from his chest as expert hands danced at his neck and stomach, brushing against the only sensitive spots he had. Only she had ever found them, by accident when her hand had touched a spot three inches from his armpit as she'd pointed out a new badge on his uniform.

"Aha!" His eyes were finally open and he could see her clear, azure eyes dancing with laughter, as if she were the one being tickled mercilessly. "You were awake! Come now, we don't have time to fool around anymore."

He had all time in the world, he mentally corrected, and _she_ shouldn't have any. She should be dead.

But, it seemed to be unlikely, given that she was standing right there, a tired smile on her worn face and giving him a look of platonic adoration that she had been so reliable for. His hand reached out on its own accord, wanting to grasp at the impossible image, and hers met him halfway, as tender as the mother he never had.

Catherine of Aragon was warm and alive, just like her smile.

"You never let me hold your hand."

His grip on the soft hand tightened reflexively. His green eyes looked up and found Catherine glaring tersely at the voice on the other side of the bed. He already knew who the silken yet grating voice belonged to, and he didn't bother to address her, lest he ruin his good mood with the sight of her. He felt a pressure on the other side of his bed and his eyes snapped to her slender figure, poised delicately on the edge of his bed. Though her comment had been jesting, her expression was perturbed and scowling.

Anne Boleyn's hot temper didn't fail her, and she shot out a hand to grab his unoccupied limb. He frowned, in disgust and disappointment, finding it was just as warm and soft as Catherine's. This was one dead queen he'd hoped would have stayed dead.

"You always liked her more!" she accused as England pulled his hand out of her tight clutches. Her already dark eyes darkened and narrowed into slits. "You were just being thick! You could never accept that I was the rightful queen after he annulled the marriage!"

She huffed and turned away moodily, her waves of brown hair twirling with the movement. A gentle sigh came from the foot of the bed.

"You must learn to cool that hot blood of yours. No wonder he rejects you - no man can stand your loud opinions and obnoxious intelligence," the cool voice berated levelly. The nation turned to the quiet woman that had appeared, unnoticed, in the room. Jane Seymour's subdued features twisted into an arrogant smirk. "And, besides, he already knows that the only true queen was I, who delivered a male heir. I was his favourite, you know."

Catherine's strong hand constricted around his. "You? Queen? Ha! You were never even crowned! I was his only true wife, and the only true queen! You are _una mayor puta_ for distracting his eyes from this _puta_." She made a jerk of head to the sulking Anne, looking fierce with her electric blue eyes burrowing into Jane. The calm woman didn't even flinch away.

"Keep that devil's language to yourself, foreign whore," Anne muttered, sounding as if this petty quarrel was much below her. She flipped her loose hair over her shoulder and perched herself once again on his bed. He looked away coldly.

"You no fight," a confident voice ordered in halted English. "Fighting is children."

A robust and blocky figure entered his vision, adding another to the collection of wives. This one was dressed in an obviously foreign fashion, speaking in fragmented and heavily accented English. It could be none other than the second Anne, Anne of Cleves. He hesitated silently before giving the queen of six months' a nod of acknowledgement. Huffs of annoyance sounded from around him, though he could barely hear it over the ruckus of cruel laughter bursting from the other side of his bed.

"Oh my! How precious is our dear Anne of Cleves, who could neither converse with or excite His Majesty?!" a young girl, no older than eighteen, squawked with mocking amusement. One Anne flushed with embarrassment, holding her round face high in strained confidence, while the other snorted with similar laughter. Jane rolled her eyes and Catherine shot a cold glare. Katherine Howard continued, a triumphant smile painted on her pretty face. "I was the most loved - he even said it! He called me his 'rose without a thorn'. He was so smitten with me that . . . well, Arthur will tell you, won't you?"

Five gazes turned to him, ranging in a variety of colors but all with the same, fervent passion. The king had picked mighty women, indeed.

An arm found its way around his shoulders and, thinking it was Anne the amorous, he flinched away. He looked back, expecting to find a saucy smile for his efforts and instead finding the final wife. She gave a rueful smile and leaned back, taking his free hand instead. Katherine Parr's smile was warm like her hands.

"You see!" Anne, the wanton one, the one who loved to start the fights, screeched. "He picks favorites! Well which one is it, Lord Kirkland?"

"Haven't we already decided it was me?"

"You, Katherine? You were arraigned for treason! Your two lovers were sent to the block, and you followed shortly."

"Hmph! At least I did not commit incest, cousin Anne."

"Don't you know? It doesn't matter how many men enter your soiled bed, as long you bear the king a strong prince. And it seems as if I were the only one that accomplished that."

"I was his only wife! He only truly loved me! I went out onto the battle field - pregnant! - to help him! You all are illegitimate."

"That's just uncivilized! Fighting should be left to the soldiers."

"I want good for England. I care for people."

"Now, please ladies. Let's not be so hot-tempered. Are we not all queens? Let's act like it."

"You only say that, Katherine, because you were the only one the king did not have the chance to behead or divorce."

"Oh, will you just be quiet, Anne?"

"_Of course,_ _Queen Katherine_."

England watched the exchange around him numbly. He was supposed to say something, to stop this bitter cat fight before it escalated, but he felt like such a child dwarfed by these powerful women. The only thing that could possibly scare them into submission could only be . . .

"What is this?"

It was amazing how one, booming voice, too arrogant to be contained within a normal man's body, could intimidate such fierce panthers into cowering kittens. Following the declaration, a bloated body hobbled into the room on his diminished legs. England's eyes widened - he hadn't remembered the cruel wife-killer to have been so thick around the abdomen. His size now seemed almost . . . inhuman. But, then again, Henry had never wanted to be tied down by the restrictions that came with the classification 'human'.

"What is this?" the king repeated.

The nation turned to the many queens of King Henry. Where was the Spanish Katherine's cool confidence and soothing touch?

Her hand had disappeared from his touch, leaving it cold and empty. Though he did not want to see, to relive, what had become of her, his head turned on it's own accord. Her eyes where sunken and unseeing, and wrinkles of anxiety marred what should have been beautiful skin. Tears leaked from her unseeing eyes, disappearing into the crinkles in her cheeks, and she turned to dust with a wail when he reached out to her.

Where was Anne the amorous's hot temper? Where was the youngest Katherine's flirtatious smiles and whore-like movements?

He looked to the ground. Their headless bodies lie strewn across the floor in an ocean of blood that poured from their necks, like their lives, that had been cut short.

Where was Jane's silent complacence?

She was clutching her swollen stomach in a corner, wailing loudly for the king that would not come for her.

Where was Anne of Cleves's warm generosity?

Her stock figure was looking out the window, deaf and alone.

Where was Katherine Parr's infectious serenity?

She was humbled at the feet of the monster, weeping and pleading in jumbled words. In her hands was a wrinkled document, and yet he could decipher the word 'treason' from across the room among the lines of text.

The beast kicked away the hysterical woman at his feet with as little affection as he'd done away with the rest of his wives. He sauntered toward England, baring his two rows of rotten and putrid teeth, and he could only back feebly into the bedpost. Henry only stopped when he'd reached the foot of the bed, panting from the exertion of his weak legs and red-faced.

A horrible, decaying smell nearly overpowered him, and that was when he realized the beast held the severed heads of his six wives on a blood-stained scepter. They stared helplessly at him with empty eyes.

The monster leered wickedly. "Who's here to protect you now, boy?"

_ . x ~X~ x . _

England sat up in bed with a cold sweat slicking his skin. The sickly sweet scent of decomposing flesh was still fresh in his mind, though the haunting pupils watching him disappeared quickly. A cold hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he could see nothing but darkness when he looked back.

"Arthur . . . Are you alright?" a feminine voice asked him. Elizabeth.

He fell back into bed and shook his head. Why was he having these dreams? Now, of all times? He'd already promised himself he'd never turn into the moody and unpredictable man his former king, Henry, had been. Never. Never would he make any soul feel the anxiety and insecurity he had endured under King Henry's reign.

-

_"Querido . . . we were once married. How can you forget?"_

_"Ha! As if I have time for those from my past that could possibly hold back the advances of the British Empire!"_

_-_

_"Did you know . . . I love you?"_

_"You're drunk, frog!"_

_". . . Of course I am."_

_-_

_"Japan, you dropped something. It's a star . . . with my name on it? And yours in on the back. What's this?_

_"A-Ano-! I-I can explain th-"_

_"Oh! I think I've seen these before . . . it's a charm for friendship, right?"_

_"O-Oh! . . . Of course. Friendship."_

_-_

_"Artie! You never showed up for dinner!'_

_". . . I didn't think the invitation was real."_

_"Oh . . . Well, I wasn't! Ahaha!"_

_"Wanker."_

-

He never would have imagined he'd become something even worse. At least Henry granted three of his wives the blessing of death.

* * *

_Word Count: Instantaneous - 2,081; Total - 9,706  
Current Characters: England, Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard, Katherine Parr, King Henry VIII; Cameos of: Queen Elizabeth I, Spain, France, Japan, America_

_A/N: Well . . . someone wanted to see the wives of King Henry, so this rubbish was born. ':D  
My-oh-my . . . so much to say, so little space . . . Henry was first married to Catherine of Aragon (who came from Spain to marry Henry's brother, Arthur, but married Henry when Arthur died) for twenty-four years and had Princess Mary before annulling their marriage to marry the hot-blooded Anne Boleyn. They had one surviving child, Elizabeth. He eventually arraigned Anne for infidelity and treason, sending her to the block and then marrying Jane Seymour hours later. Jane bore him his first male heir, Edward, before she died of post-natal complications. He then married the German princess, Anne of Cleves, but grew tired of her and annulled the marriage soon after. He married one of Anne's maids-in-waiting, Katherine Howard, but charged her with treason like her cousin and sent her to the block. His last wife was Katherine Parr, whom he was married to until his death._

_So children, be wary of the Iggy-monster when you snuggle into your beds tonight. He may eat your heart and never be the wiser. :]_


	8. An Anniversary

_ . x X An Anniversary X x . _

~X~

_Knock. Knock._

The stooped and tired figure didn't shift from his stiff position hovering next to hospital bed. France paused uncertainly, balancing the two bouquets in his arms with a little difficulty and tapping the door again. Perhaps he should just walk in and-

"I heard you the first time, bloody frog. What do you want?"

Smirking, France stepped through the threshold of the ICU ward. The English nation finally glanced over at his eastern neighbor when he heard the crinkle of bouquet wrapping. England's bushy brows stitched together, forming one massive brow that was his defining signal of confusion, and turned back to the boy resting upon the bed.

"Were _two_ really quite necessary?" the island nation criticized shortly. "One would have been more than enough."

Placing the flowers gently on the bedside table, France threw his companion a mock injured look. "I thought you were more of a gentleman, _Angleterre._ Shouldn't you offer your guests a seat before verbally abusing them? Or is this just another crude English custom?"

England didn't bother with his standard retort. All of his attention was being given to the patient resting in the room. France, unable to continue their spoken joust without the other's contribution, silently sidled up to the other nation and watched the sick boy take raspy breaths through his mask.

"How is he doing?" France asked reverently.

The green-eyed nation smiled sardonically. "They told me he could have died if he had arrived an hour later," England reported, all bitterness crumbling away as he ran his fingers maternally through Sealand's dishwater-blond locks. He sighed. "All this fanfare about this 'swine flu', and I didn't even bother to protect my own household."

"Shouldn't he be staying with Tino and Berwald?"

England withdrew his hand and shook his head. "He was visiting me for the month, but I had to attend the meeting last week and I wouldn't take him. The lad must have gotten sick sometime after I left and was too proud to call anyone for help." He drew a shaky breath. "He almost_ died,_ Francis."

France, who always enjoyed kicking people when they were at their lowest, merely observed this time as England wiped his palm over his cheek. He pretended as if he hadn't seen the proud nation cry.

"He's a terrible lad - spoiled, rude, and constantly whining about one thing or another - but we share blood. No matter how insufferable he may be, if he died, a part of me would have died alongside him." England gave a short, sarcastic bark of laughter. "It's quite the cliché, isn't it? Only missing someone once they're gone."

The French nation stared apathetically at his antagonist for a moment before reaching over and plucking the bouquet of yellow and red roses. "Happy March twenty-fourth," France offered plainly.

"How _thoughtful_," the Englishman spat, turning back to his ill brother.

"Of course, considering that _Espagne_ asked me to deliver them," France added lightly, replacing the flowers onto the table. "The other one is for Sealand, from me."

He turned to leave England to his pensive thoughts, but stopped at the door. Looking back, he pulled a Lancaster-red rose from Spain's bouquet and placed it into the other's unresponsive hand. He kissed both of England's sallow cheeks before he could protest and then slipped out of the aggressive nation's reach.

Chuckling, he called over his shoulder, "Welcome to the twenty-first century, _mon ami!_"

_ . x X _el final_ X x . _

* * *

_Word Count: Instantaneous - 585; Total - 10,297  
Current Characters: England, France, Sealand_

_A/N: So, it's finally done! My first eva multichapter project finally done!__ So, thanks guys - all the reviewers, the subscribers, the favoriters, the everyone! - for sticking with me through his inconsistent mess. Hopefully, you'll see me around again soon? :3_

_Oh, and some final notes about this chapter:  
'bouquet of yellow and red roses' - In the language of floriography, it means joy and excitement. Quite a slap in the face, hm? But, in Spain, yellow is also the colour for royal mourning.  
'Happy March twenty-fourth' - No, it's not a holiday anywhere, but it is the day the Tudor dynasty ended with the death of the last sovereign, Queen Elizabeth._


End file.
